ALL OF THEM ARE UNSAVORY.
Meanwhile a more interesting class of habitues are fast arriving. The deputy chief walks in with a dignified mien with his docket under his arm, lays it on his little table, opens it, scrutinizes it, makes an alteration here and there, and then sits down. A few lawyers come through a side door in a great hurry, fling their bags down on the table, glance at the clock, look very much relieved, give the crowd behind the rail a sharp, shrewd glance which takes them in one and all, even to the gurgling baby in the arms of that woman with the wet red mouth and the big moist eye. The reporters come rushing in, glance over the docket, nod to the lawyers, whisper with a policeman, fling their paper on the table, borrow somebody’s knife and set about industriously sharpening their pencils. A couple of sergeants from the other stations arrive and consult with the deputy-chief. Three or four detectives come in briskly and confer with them. Then an inspector and some more sergeants and police come in and, standing erect, look about them with solemn and dignified air. The deputy critically compares his watch with the clock. A couple of policemen are immediately on the alert. It is four minutes to ten.
“Bring in the first two prisoners!”
The alert policemen go out and in an incalculably short time bring in two drunks, who are planted in the dock and told to sit down.
Says the deputy, “Is that John Smith and Reuben Robertson?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Which is John Smith?”
“The man on the other side.”
“Very well.”
Then there is an expectant lull. It is